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Dancing Over The Fury
Dancing Over The Fury 1st Revised 5/21/04 2nd Revision 11/3/06 By Christopher J. Bradley 5/18/2003 11:03:07 PM ©2003 Dancing Over The Fury Dancing Over The Fury is my second book. In actuality, it is both finished and a work in progress. Each Day I will be uploading more work from within the work itself to The Starlight Cafe, where the work can be embelished. I intend to keep a table of contents here, with links to the works that have been uploaded. Feel free to give me your thoughts, expressions, or criticisms, I would definitely like to hear them. This is a public journal, but not yet to the point of syndication or registration. For those of you in the HTML world, you will know what this means. In any case, enjoy your readings, and I expect a full report when you are finished. The Doctor is signing out. -Chris Chapter 1 Culture Jam Why Netscape Radio Plus Is Awesome By Christopher J. Bradley 5/2/2003 3:29:15 PM ©2003 The thoughts just noodle into your brain While you sit there typing or surfing Or whatever. I’ve been enjoying this thing for days. Spiraling trip hops of jazz Spinning around chordbeats And little synchronized sample drops And the fun never stops. The Spider Crawl By Christopher J. Bradley 5/4/2003 3:13:01 PM ©2003 Peter Parker Doesn’t know How Good He’s got it. To be able To crawl up walls Spin webs And drift through Thin air On a silken Tensile Rope. He jumps And Hurdles From building To building In his grey Nike’s. And I gather That he’s even Quick minded With the science And Stuff. Wall St. Days By Christopher J. Bradley 5/6/2003 3:54:41 PM ©2003 The days passed quickly Up-tempo and bleary Discussions of garment racks And the K-Mart crisis Pitched in my ears. We talked of Buyer stratification And market segmentation And delivery of goods services And content. We studied the Super Bowl The year the Patriots won And broke down the Commercial statistics In the USA Today. And we learned to manage our pocketbooks And determine our financial position So that maybe one day We might buy stocks And Bonds. The Gentle Voices of Bossa Nova By Christopher J. Bradley 5/5/2003 12:44:37 AM ©2003 Poetry is a shared experience. As I write The Gentle Voices of Bossa Nova Tingle in my ears. I am treated to the sounds Of a dynamic jazz flute Over a standing Bass And some quick drum snaps. The meandering quick And uptempo gestures Of the rhythmic sounds Vibrate against my melodic spirit And then A slow intermission Introducing Piano And guitar. Could there be more exciting variance? Thank You Michael 5/10/2003 4:22:13 PM ©2003 by Christopher J. Bradley Dedicated to Michael Jordan Dark Buddhist Angel Of The Sphere Mover of the winds of the Globe By the Achilles of a Nike you fly. Even now that you have Moved into philanthropic ventures. How I mourn you The loss of your father And the hours of regrettable journalism With regard to the Sox We know it was spirit healing Never Bull. Thank you for inspiring us Through your return A political wizardry And reminding us That even as the years pass We remain inspired. The Fire Hydrant Dog By Christopher J. Bradley 5/4/2003 2:45:06 PM The Dalmation sat upright On it’s haunches On the t-shirts Of a hundred Club Kids In the flickering embers Of the night-time glow Inside the retrofit Parking ramp. I heard DJ Megabitch Spin a terminator track So I danced around Dreaming New York Spots. That was the night I met David Eating Oranges In the Room Full of Remnants And other cushy fluff. And I went home With my very own Fire Hydrant Dog. A Fallen Bond By Christopher J. Bradley 5/8/2003 8:20:06 AM ©2003 It was seven o’clock When I heard of Roger Moore’s collapse. His paroxysm struck on Broadway And no doubt in a whirlwind of outburst. The thought of it all My hero from age seven A novel relic from the age of Flemming That would nourish me with finesse And not heresy. It would enlighten Even the finicky film watchers To see his name stretched across the heavens. I pray that he does not go too soon. Pow Bang Flap Boom! By Christopher J. Bradley 4/27/2003 2:20 PM The Riddler Joker Penguin and Catwoman Have all set their snares For the notorious Adam West Man turned Bat Bat turned Hero. They are on a collision course With the gloved fist That will find them all in stripes Arch enemies locked behind bars Isn’t it uncanny that We would find them lurking In the dark corners of morning On a tiny black and white image box Behind the terminal that often crashes Next to a filing cabinet Where the old goods are kept. It is good to see that At least across times sands The old Batman reels Have Survived. Life in the fast lane 5/10/2003 1:36:14 PM ©2003 by Christopher J. Bradley They moved like greased lightening The finger strokes of Henley and the boys In the licks on the string tool. The guitar hummed in the darkness And a car sped away in the night Headlights blazing on the corner of Packard And the Boulevard. It reminded me of younger days When I watched videos Of “All she wants to do is dance” And “The boys of summer.” Miami Vice was all the rage And Crockett and Tubbs were Large and in charge In their three piece detective suits In the heat of Miami Sun. But then we all knew that Henley Had been to California and back And from that Well it kind of becomes Home. A February Kiss in The Rain By Christopher J. Bradley 5/6/2003 3:44:29 PM ©2003 Thank you Marvel I cannot see you Until your eyelids glisten In the harmonics Of the pattering rain. I try to speak But I am enrapt By the sheer and utter Beauty Of simply Hearing your face As the wet pearls Of water Dance upon Your cheeks. And I am so taken in When we at last Kiss And the journey To this rooftop In the Manhattan night Is fulfilled. Thank You. Can you see what I see? By Christopher J. Bradley 5/6/2003 4:16:50 PM ©2003 May 15 2003 They drop the second Bomb on The Matrix. And the spiders scatter It’s the end Of human cocoons Everywhere. It’s almost time For the enslaved masses To arise And make Their Exodus With Neo As their guide. The albino dreadlocks can phase shift and Trinity Still has her kicks. All that I Can Wonder Is will it Have the same Punch That The Zen Differential Would have? Or will it Just be Another Pase sequel? Only time Will tell. washington st matrix by Christopher J. Bradley 4/23/2003 3:35:59 AM ©2003 for all telecom people inspired by Gibson Multi-Media Big – Time The journey into everything corporate Retail phases out behind steel rims I am standing at the 3rd floor elevator Escorted to Paul’s cubicle It’s all ties briefcases and planners Deskwork headsets and terminals Flowcharts graphs reports and schedules The timepieces are on the walls These are the days of 3.1 February 95 Seven months and counting Until the big change The personal computer Will never be the same The interview was last week I’ve been hired The project he outlines for me is Disney The Lion King Animated Story Book A public relations nightmare From a technical perspective Two weeks training commence A customer service M.A.S.H. unit boot camp All of the rigors of DOS and Windows And an Access composite Database A quick introduction to Microsoft Mail The precursor to modern Outlook For three months the Callmaster was my overseer I punched keys and executed clicks with precision I pasted notes and scanned faxes I learned cool down tactics And rewrote code without paper or machine With the headset locked on my temples like a vice I was a verbal relay, a conduit I rattled out execution orders for driver updates I reconstructed autoexec and config files And depressurized the callers en masse One Saturday in May the ice broke I went to the McDonalds for lunch On the way back I peered into the cinema window There was a slick posted for Johnny Mnemonic Keanau in sharkskin grey against The Matrix After my shift I called home To let my parents know that I would be late The entire spectrum of the bizarre had hit pay-dirt Internet 2021 had opened for me in the Voidspace The Washington St. Market Arcade General Cinema With the projector alight beside my employer was a home to Gibson. opening the mnemonic by Christopher J. Bradley 4/23/2003 3:56:27 AM For those who know The title flared and phased away An alarm clock flickers in his iris He sits up to the vidphone With a prostitute black silked at his side He makes a bad attempt to bargain with his fixer The sequence is Beijing hotel Gate crashing protesters revolt as he wades In and through the shields and batons of riot cops A silence counterpoints in the lobby Twin girls and his head refracted in a fish bowl In an elevator he unwraps a fake cigarette pack The dial whizzes past red digital digits While the gigabyte expander taps his mind The doors open and he squares off Delivering a nonexistent pizza to armed research defects He jacks into a minidisc and they feed him the data Three images click click click The minds eye opens and he’s in the bathroom A nosebleed into a chrome sink reflects mirrored Laser flare – The motion sensor trips Canceled Tai Chi becomes re-arrangement of the towel rack They enter the room with trauma guns Blue anime shrieks with the meeting of lead and red plasma The laser whip cuts fingers and color photo fax A bald head meets steel piping crashing to bathtub marble Those left clear him a tight path to the door In the elevator Johnny dons a Lennon wig rose colored lenses and a topcoat It’s a quick step back past the fishbowl No more twins – A quick turn – He’s back in the riots The NAS signs flood like driftweeds into the China night The plane arrives on a Jersey industrial runway The digital inspector reads his implant as dyslexia prosthetic It knows that it is seeping A deadly consequence of his masking of the truth. Chapter 2 Politicking and Coffee The man going off to war By Christopher J. Bradley 5/2/2003 2:45:48 PM The man going off to war Sat quietly among his friends Not a hint of a tear In the corner of his eye. His friends are brothers Of the Lambda Phi Epsilon fraternity A true brotherhood of proud students From the University It stands to their credit That they are sending him off As a United House. Through their memories And tellings of his legacy They make him a hero Today and forever. The Anniversary of a Tragedy By Christopher J. Bradley Dedicated to those lost in the September 11 attacks. In one year Our family has lost a member And I have gained a sister We have lost one dog And found another. A friend has lost a mother But gained a nephew Another has come home from Peru And moved to Illinois. I have traveled into the Big Apple And Been visited 3 times By my relatively new friend From New York Manhattan Queens. The globe has spun 365 times Traveled around the sun once Bringing Winter Spring Summer and now Fall. The World Cup and The Olympics The Stanley Cup Superbowl PGA and Baseball seasons Have all commenced Many have completed And are ready to restart. I personally have lost a job But gained employment Sold a Saturn and Bought a Ford Written a book and published a web page. I have met people of all sorts From the users to the pushers And Every Manner In-Between And those who’ve somehow managed to avoid it all. I have composed my treatise on peace. When we do remember the dead Let us not forget That they have not only departed from this earth But from the living Breathing Artists Scientists Doctors Lawyers Firemen Teachers Police Armed Forces Poets And Actors Who will carry on their hopes And dreams In the works of their hands And minds Each year from now Until the history books Of all living memory Are closed. Why I now think Linda is an excellent waitress By Christopher Bradley 10/10/02 Dedicated to Linda at Toms At first I didn’t like Linda I think I just hadn’t got to know her yet So I decided to get to know her better I asked her if she had kids And whether she was Italian. She has an Italian demeanor and dark hair. Over the course of weeks I learned that she has a romantic interest And has been through a divorce For some people I have learned that That works out best anyway. All of these things together Help me to see her as human Someone with potential Someone definitely worth more than her wage For care-taking us night-owls. I have now just today learned That she has worked for some classier restaurants But chooses Tom’s for convenience. She has told a few of us regulars About her friend the Safari hunter in the Philharmonic Who has rooms full of taxidermy. And she knows her worth And how to put her foot down When she needs to. And so I am happy to leave her a tip Even when I am in the “Red Zone” Because I know she works hard To keep the establishment clean and comfortable When I am around. And she keeps a weathered smile Because for all the troubles she encounters She knows that a better road lies ahead For those who can maintain their dignity In the face of adversity. Upon further reflection That smile isn’t so weathered after all Let’s just call it Genuine. Bankrupt in the USA by Christopher J. Bradley ©2003 I am in Bankruptcy Das Kapital did none for me I am in Bankruptcy Driving to the edge for free. God save the President He cuts taxes While they raise rent And guns only make butter. I am in Bankruptcy And the Greek Feta isn't Free I am in Bankruptcy But I can still afford Dragonball Tea. Monopoly on Channel 23 Headroom's got his camera on me And BMW's got hi-def Footage Stream. I am in Bankruptcy And this red horse is on white lightening while I'm seeing stars come over me. I am in Bankruptcy. 2020 A Man Steps Down by Christopher J. Bradley ©2003 In the year 2020 The president resigned He was unable to fulfill his promise To bring prosperity In a time of peace. He was confronted with the fact That by 2014 the threat of global terrorism had been eliminated by three consecutive terms of Republican predecessors In all three branches of government There was no one left to kill To stimulate the economy. Which had been weakened by the draft which had eliminated Some of the most creative minds of history. He had been left To serve a nation Of sedate television and webbie audience carefully drugged and surveilled What possible scandal could harm him? Beside that The machines could do as good a job. The Gaslight Poet By Christopher J. Bradley 4/16/2003 ©2003 It is in his nature That he imbibes fully in life Seizing the proverbial night In a hotel lounge. Lighting cigarettes Gradually Over Martinis With friends of Sinatra. By day He pushes rubber and steel Iaccoca’s revitalized Detroit Dream And beyond the hotel I go to him. I go to him to share the news I go to him to laugh again To find those parts of myself That I hope not to seek Beyond the grave. I share with him that place Where Israel meets Bethlehem Finding the waters of the mighty Niagara. At 3AM I find solace In caffeine and smoke The light glows a pale yellow In our souvlaki garden. And the keys to iron horses And german engineering Rest on a poker bet Against those forces We cannot control. So we must pray for serenity To endure. For a time is coming Where Blackhawks will crash Dropping Chicago On useless hardware. And those blue eyes Of Memphis On New Years Eve in Egypt Recorded and Timeless At the turn of the Millenium Will crash the virus of September On Bloody St. Patrick. And so we sit Idly praying Lighting on a new tomorrow Where the beaten women And tread on children And cannon fodder atheists Might not not have to go gently Into that good sand Without the nobility of knowing That the honorable battle Was endured. The fade a qui By Christopher J. Bradley 4/28/2003 ©2003 The fade a qui May be wielded By one hand alone The hand of Paul Maudeeb. Paul has been trained by the sisterhood And has aquired the voice. He is waiting for the storm to come Waiting for the proper time For the revelation to fall upon the Emperor That his time is passed And that he can no longer interfere in Family business. Dune Desert Planet Arakis. When we have enough we shall change the face Of the Desert Planet. Mayday By Christopher J. Bradley 5/2/2003 2:35:15 PM ©2003 “Mayday Mayday This is Snowden Calling Sgt. Bilko The Commander and Chief And Governor Patton. “ “I’m on the 100th Meridian Moving Northward Into Hostile Fire I remember Buffalo.” MacArthur’s got them on the line “Captain Klink where’s the Pyro?” “He’s with Magneto and X-Ray sir.” ”May Dante and his Inferno save us all.” “I’m sorry sir I’m not understanding you exactly.” “They’re with the French Foreign Legion 151st.” “You mean the Somali’s” ”Yes The Somali’s.” “John’s at the wheel” “That bloodthirsty Reveler eh?” ”That’s exactly the one.” ”Tell him to come down off the mountain” “Yes sir” ”We need to strengthen the Golden Gate Bridge” “Everything’s Spectacular.” “Your Kung Fu is Strong.” Chocolate Macadamia Nut Coffee By Christopher J. Bradley 5/5/2003 12:33:49 AM ©2003 I still have some left And I’m drinking it now Cold. Chocolate Macadamia Nut Blend From Wegmans. The coffee was excellent. My mother and I shopped there Just this morning. Bringing home a wealth Of grocer’s goods. The thing I remember most About this coffee Other than the fact That they used to brew It at the Topic Café’ Is that a Fraternity Pledge From Hawaii Introduced me to Macadamia Nuts When I was in Chicago. They were interesting And he said Very expensive Being that they are imported. He was a Bob Marley fan too Said Marley smoked trash bags Full of pot. Must have been Some kind of serious 420 Moment. Portico del Politico By Christopher J. Bradley 4/16/2003 12:12:09 AM ©2003 Oh Mighty Boston! Home maker to the Kennedy’s I have walked your sea-salted streets In daylight and in darkness. I have read the news And spanned the Globe Searching for a deeper meaning In a book on your trains I have walked the halls Of Haymarket Square And contemplated on the graves Of our forefathers. I have played and lost A hand or two of Poker And shared many a beer With Irish Spanish English and the like. I have driven through your dig at night And awoken to a new day. Campaign Confidential by Christopher J. Bradley 5:40 AM 2/26/03 ©2003 Her consultation involves Exactly four transmissions Her successful and professional Unsecured solutions Are similar to his approved confidential. Unsecured debts Are actually promptly collected In discreet At her request The procedure having completed And the campaign minimum is approved In unbelievable confidence. To Be Stimulated By Christopher J. Bradley ©2003 4/16/2003 12:18:49 AM In the pool tabled room The juke-box is playing Much thanks to Scott And his Yankee glasses. The readers of The Beast Have all left And Dylan’s a wailin’ And he’s actually singing. The traffic passes As the unhappy parade commences And the ashtray fills While a quarter rests On the mottled tabletop. A discussion with a writer. By Christopher J. Bradley 5/5/2003 12:39:41 AM A writer today Told me that he was there When the Huns sacked Rome. Interesting Seeing he’s about 30 now. Anyway His argument was That given a choice A writer would rather be elsewhere. Where exactly is elsewhere anyway? If I want to write about poolsticks I can write about them here Same as anywhere else Or at least Open up a dialogue about Foreign poolsticks With Foreigners. Isn’t that what this whole T-Mobile Revolution is about Anyway? I guess that’s too much power For one pocket. As a Fifth of Whisky Sends a mathematician to his grave. By Christopher J. Bradley 4/28/2003 4:02:20 AM A mathematician sits Slowly drinking himself away In his study. Don’t get me wrong This is not his only Poison of choice. And I have time More than a few moments To write of the pain of Watching him While he met all the people That would lead him To his large Grey Headstone. Here lies a mathematician Who studied Just a little bit of the world And lived to tell about it. Thank You Canada By Christopher J. Bradley 4/28/2003 4:08:33 AM Thank you Canada For the girl in the hot pants For the existential experiences and the Tall boy For the Casino and the CN Tower. Thank you Canada For the Blue Jays game And the great awakening To the importance of our moms and dads. And for a professional dental cleaning. Thank you Canada For the nights under Argon Selling drinks to the kids of tomorrow’s establishment. Thank you Canada For a good look at myself When I had no other mirror to look at. Thank you Canada For making me a hockey fan And inviting me for a sub with Don Cherry. And Thank you Canada Most of All For giving me a radio station that listens sometimes. Thank you Canada. Downtown at the Ground Round By Christopher J. Bradley 4/27/2003 2:06:49 PM We haggled with the bartender to change The television channel to a hockey game That was ending. Scott ordered some God-Forsaken draft I ordered by Default a Guinness. If you’re going off the wagon you might as well. I am still drunk a day later. We ordered the outrageous nachos w/chicken And they were outrageous. It seemed like I would taste them For days. The Nachos were a molten mountain Of cheese and bean With hot green peppers And chicken bits That kept slipping through My sticky fingers like a sauce. We played six games of Quick Draw And won back 3 dollars collectively Scott said the bouncing ball was taunting us. As we staggered into the car I complained about the other customer’s use of the phrase “B-A-N” And asked him if he’d ever had a “Good Hot Beer Shit?” Referring to Burroughs from Poetry in Motion. Think About that one for a second. We laughed about Burroughs Most of the way home Although for the most part He has gone ignored by us. And I do think That I have discovered that place Where the pen does at last Meet the page with the strength Of a thousand men. Native American Cigarettes By Christopher J. Bradley 4/30/2003 4:45:56 AM I earn my cancer slowly Measure for measure These dueling spikes of paper Unravel in my hands In the darkness While my nose runs My heart speaks. It sings in silent rings To the memory Of a black stockinged Girl from the past Who strung out with me During the first days Of the Chesterfield Anarchy. She was a Londoner Making a game of the party In the Indian Summer October of the Adventure Club And she looked into my boyhood’s eyes Knowing that I would never possess her. So we shared Coffee At the Arts café One summer afternoon Before she shuttled Back to the airport And I saw her face slightly saddened As she rode on to Penny Lane. The Tracking Hum Vee By Christopher J. Bradley 5/6/2003 3:41:07 PM ©2003 I drove casually down The highway Smoking En-route to meet Scott At Stimulance A quiet café. I had the radio on And suddenly the bright red vehicle Snuck up on me On the left. It was huge Like a tank on CNN With monster wheels Flattened out Against the black top turf. The road was definitely His. Isolated isotopes By Christopher J. Bradley 5/5/2003 12:49:19 AM ©2003 They found it Back in the 1930’s The solution For the isotopes Of Uranium 238. If they could only Pack that much punch Into the education system So that students Might know What Uranium 238 does And what it can mean for them. Are we still at 100 times the net Capacity for the utter annhialation of the planet? Or have we backed off considerably Say to 10 times? Who knows. I’m sure NATO and the UN have it Entirely under control. Maybe we could convince A poet or two To lend a hand And spread the word That the word Must be As strong As the Kernal It represents. I’m boycotting Heavy Metal. Spangle Me Baby By Christopher J. Bradley 5/4/2003 3:31:01 PM Tatoo the flag Across my forehead I am one hundred Percent In love With the American Dream. Take me across All Borders No Visa Required Where my Cold Hard Cash Is Good as Gold. Rise on my voice To The Highest Mountains And Sing My Songs To The Fruited Plains Send My Seeds To The Valleys Below. And carry My bloody Stripes and Stars To the Apex Of the nations United. Chapter 3 Polite Thoughts about Romance Coastline Slam (notes from Typhoon) by Christopher J. Bradley 4/15/2003 11:59:53 PM ©2003 A wind swept-love Begins with the twist Of a forked tongue The lovers unite And are parted. While one claims it a non-deed She is left in stricken horror Of what is to become of her With her unforgiving father And a child to come. Driven She fires the lead hammer And kills the wretched Wouldn’t be father of her child And turns the weapon at first opportunity On herself. Is there merit in the headlines That haunted her from within? I do not see it. A Rotterdam Moment on Pearl By Christopher J. Bradley 10/17/2002 5:13:24 AM I walked down the corridor Of Alleyway Theater A passageway from an empty bar Into a clubzone like No other I’ve ever experienced in Buffalo. The lights and music Actually synched up And the DJ wasn’t far off From the days of Oribital on Queen The sounds of “Groove” took me back To Atlantis the lost city. And it was only a small party But the young girl was there Without her ruby slippers Wearing a white elven gown Over blue jeans With my arm around her waist A manic groping in the dark And we introduced ourselves And she danced to another. And I owe my re-indoctrination To the vibe To a new friend Named Jay. Sex in the rafters By Christopher J. Bradley 4/30/2003 8:23:24 AM ©2003 Sex in the rafters Was a terrible mistake Don’t get me wrong It was really really great. But when the bed fell On my roomate’s head A couple of days later I might as well have been dead. Her eyes shone through me like blue iris By Christopher J. Bradley 4/28/2003 12:30:21 AM ©2003 Her eyes shone through me Like blue Iris On a sandswept Sunday night At the end of April. She was reading Madame Bovary In the café’ And she told me of her friend with the feather From Washington State How they had just gotten to know each other That first night I recognized her From the café downtown. She looks like destiny But I can see in my minds eye That I did not look like much of a prince In my toaded beard. But she did leave me a single shred of paper handkerchief To rescue for her from the table. Oh Lord if this could be true I would be the happiest man alive. Showering These months in the basement By Christopher J. Bradley 4/30/2003 4:37:26 AM ©2003 You lured me into the shower The tiny basement shower The two of us could barely fit It was a long night out We were both filthy With street dirt. So I soaped you down Got all of your fuzzy parts lathery And kissed your neck bone While the soap slid between My fingers. The water pattered over your Slippery breasts as though You were a marble fountain In a Roman bath My lips could not resist them As my fingertips Glazed your eyes. I desired no satisfaction What we shared in bed was enough But you helped me to get clean Nonetheless. Thank you My Angel of the café. Dancing The Waltz Of Northern Spring By Christopher J. Bradley 4/28/2003 3:52:47 AM ©2003 She is on my arm Beneath the maple trees Dancing in the moonlight All of the flowers of spring are sleeping. The cooking Upon the table Was delicious at dinner An omlette with vegetables The meal we shared. She writes letters to all of her friends Telling them of the secrets of our romantic endeavors While I secretly plant my rose in her crystal vase In the morning’s dew. Punk Rock Heat By Christopher J. Bradley 5/6/2003 ©2003 It was Saturday And it was Punk Rock Heat. The park was crowded With every kind Of Vendor And Performer. There was A giant Half-Pipe And I was Walking Slow With my Rock and Roll Betty. We sat at the Top of the Dirt Mound In the brutal sun And the air Was like a windbrush Painting Mirage. I took a walk To buy water And paused a moment To listen to Jazz Some nice smooth David Kane. And when I returned We held hands. Moby played the bongos So unlike I’d Ever seen him before And we bounced In the back of the crowd. Someone threw A plastic bottle And he stopped To scold them. We looked For his tent But he had left Directly From The Stage. In the Punk Rock Heat. The Kitchen Manager By Christopher J. Bradley 5/10/2003 12:46 PM The Kitchen Manager At the coffee & Always greets me With a big cheery smile. Her hair is perfectly curled In a brown tuft of permanent And her demeanor Is always kind. She always invites me to return And I always feel welcome here It’s a nice dreamy Woodgrain feeling that I get While writing on her Neat clean table. And the food Prepared under her direction Is always fresh and delicious She served me an orange juice Just this morning. What will come of the future Anyone can tell If I keep calling on her Friendly visage Can I get an “Amen?” The Gardens In The City By Christopher J. Bradley ©2003 The unforgiving city Houses gardens Where precious memories Of promenade lace And tuxedo silk Were required It was an innocent time Yet now in retrospect Strange and unforgiving As the screaming rainbow Of the journey To pure entertainment Yielded a combination Of plentiful frustrations Tomorrow I will feel The returning ambition of those days As options Re-adjust Their symmetries In the rose colored Mirror shades Of the familiar Landscape Of the void In the Matrix. To my international friend By Christopher J. Bradley 11:04 AM 4/27/03 ©2003 Ohio Gozaimas Konichiwa Doitachmachte. I would definitely Like to see you Sometime again My international Friend. Take all my best wishes Home with you To the country Of your ancestors. And rise again From the ashes In a phoenixes Brilliant plumes In the land Where the sea Travels west To set last on Hollywood Bring your family Into my melting pot And dance under the arm Of Liberty and her torch. Find your spirit In the sheeted Stripes and Stars On the mast Of the tall carriers. Join your game makers With our scientists And draw your anime Upon data’s shores While the hamster runs Through the horns of the ram. And take me at last To Nissan Village Where I will walk hand in hand With the Honda Robot. On How I Want Them All Back By Christopher J. Bradley 4/16/2003 12:56:08 AM ©2003 I want them all back Not one Not two All of them. I suppose my efforts in large Will be in vain And so I will not begin Except to put the word on the street Through these simple words. I want back my childhood playmates Who shared hugs with me On innocent days in the tall grass And on horseback. I want back the sixties girls From Dramatic Arts camp Who drew Peace Signs on my shirt And brought me to realize The cruelties of war. I want back the one who taught me poetry On the cool summer morning On her front porch In her shredded journal. I want back the African princess Who traveled with me In my father’s Shadow And through the water park. I want back my ex-fiance The girl I vowed to marry Who shared bliss on that promise I will always regret my failure to keep. I want back the Canadian girl Who taught me the treasures of lust Under the laser-light of modern-disco From Club to Club from here to Detroit. I want back the jacketed assassin The nuclear age raven In bleached blue jean street gear Splotching the Buffalo daybreak With crossbow darts and candy. I want back the Congressman’s Daughter Who called me the Buffalo Soldier At the Fraternity Dinner in Chicago Where I smoked my first Menthol Cigarette. I want back the radiant dawn The girl who with a smile Could say a thousand worlds And litigate my soul. And yet for all the wanting I cannot hope for a tomorrow To include any of them I must move forward And read into a new day. And let the dream I have Of discovering my value to the world Through the hands of His words Printed endlessly in the voices Of those both dead and alive And moving over the airwaves Of both video and audio And through the archives Of human contact and mysteries of handshakes Drift into my own pages and spaces. For as I said I want simply To have them back Even a word Would do. Chapter 4 Introspections The philosopher sits and writes By Christopher J. Bradley 5/4/2003 3:20:15 PM ©2003 The philosopher sits And writes His thoughts Of times in the distant past. When Socrates Questioned Plato Formed And Aristotle Taught He was the mentor of Alexander. Butterflies and cocoons open In his angled hand And Promethean fire Dances on Papyrus. All of this He does in solitude While the humble clerk Punches a clock In awe At his wakeful dream. On being haunted By Christopher J. Bradley 4/16/2003 ©2003 Being haunted is not Quite the same as being hunted You can feel the eyes more But they hover. And do not attack. One time I was haunted in the daylight Unable to seek out my grandfather’s grave For the flowers had moved. But this time it is different. Sitting in relative comfort In a place that I like all to well While my pen scratches In my nerve sprung hand. One day their eyes Will find mine in the darkness. Beware The Man In The Mirror By Christopher J. Bradley 4/16/2003 ©2003 The man in the glass Can take you there Every which way But the way you should have gone Until even he looks like Your worn out smoking Grizzled grand dad. And the spirits aren’t far off. The Cold Room By Christopher J. Bradley 4/16/2003 ©2003 Ice hangs from the ceiling In the cold room The people are frozen About to become Adjuncts to history Cogs in clean society Moving forward Americans all And the ice hangs on the wall In the cold room. The bus is not hell By Christopher J. Bradley 4/16/2003 ©2003 I rode the bus 2 weeks ago And saw young and old And all types. Share the seats On a sunny afternoon. And now they are offering me an opportunity to ride free. If I could only work If I could only work… Today Is Money Day By Christopher J. Bradley 4/16/2003 12:49:31 AM ©2003 So After All of The Paperwork All of the losses And lost causes Of the past several weeks Today Is Money Day. I will be able to buy at a whim Once again With no regard Or responsibility. Keeping only those things Turned on That turn me on. So Today Is Money Day. And I won’t soon forget How they kept me in the gutter This long. Why I have not yet captured the whale By Christopher J. Bradley 4/16/2003 3:35:52 PM ©2003 I am reveling In catching up to the present And I do not desire The stripes of a Captain. Today’s world Is complex to the point That I might never accomplish This mighty task. Without the aid of the enterprise And a car salesman Who is no longer there In certain ways Joining the council Is a poor excuse For getting lax. And so I think I will probably buy A copy today. Riding to 10th By Christopher J. Bradley 4/16/2003 ©2003 The glorious wonders Of Main St. await As we cruise In my father’s chevy We pass the Library And Video Store And Supermarket And Hospital All in pursuit of one aim To at last help me to secure Freedom Independence Wealth. Dreadlock Bambaclat By Christopher J. Bradley 5/4/2003 3:28:33 PM ©2003 I like the Jamaican people In fact I love them At times I have been a disciple of Marley’s wisdom. But there is one Dreadlock Bambaclat Who I will never Know or find love for. He’s the one That ruined me With street poison And muddled up my mind So Long Ago. It is a good thing I never knew His Name. Craps By Christopher J. Bradley 5/8/2003 7:30:49 AM Ten dollars on the Pass Line An old man throws the dice Seven Front line winner I collect my chips. Six Easy six mark it Place the eight twelve bucks Nine pay the field Place the hard six five. Eight pay the eights I collect fourteen And take odds on the six Six easy six take down the hards I collect twenty two Could this get better? Five nothing for me Just the anticipation for the next roll Seven Out You can’t win them all. The Stonefaced Bartender By Christopher J. Bradley 5/8/2003 7:16:36 AM ©2003 The bartender at the Seneca Casino Had a cold stone face His eyes were harder than granite As he poured me my orange juice. Knowing the answer to the question Before I asked I questioned when the Busiest time was. He told me that it began To pick up Thursday And that on Saturday The bar was standing room only. I tipped him a dollar And resumed inserting Ten dollar bills In the video poker machine. I know I am one of those Buffalonians By Christopher J. Bradley ©2002 I am one of those smokers In the fishbowls and bars One of those sporting hat wearers Sitting at the counters in donut shops. I am one of those dancers In the discos and the Latin clubs I am one of those socialist democrats Listening to Jazz. I am one of those manic street poets Throwing my words at the universe I am in newsprint and on local TV Complaining with the masses And praising our politicians When praise is due. I am a worker A brother a son Not only of a father But of America. I am a musician A DJ a producer A Promoter. I have thrown parties of all sorts And attended them as well. I am a recovery case And the recipient of help And I know the Father Who surpasses all nations I have been The racquetball softball Bowling croquette soccer football Lawndart volleyball and baseball player. I have discovered my scars And covered them as best I can I am the new generation that Pepsi sold to And I am the old generation that buys Coke at McDonalds. I have seen the Buffalo Roam the streets and the stadium And the Bison graze at Oppenheim and War Memorial And I know at least that my hometown Is a little bit more than metropolitan. I know I am one of those Buffalonians. Chapter 5 Fantasy These words are dancing By Christopher J. Bradley 5/4/2003 ©2003 These words are dancing Through space and time With not enough Paper to rest upon. Dear publisher If you should Find this scrap Take it And move it If you please Into the hands Of the millions Without a functional Telepresence. Thank you A modest poet In moderation. Riding Carroll’s Coattails By Christopher J. Bradley 4/27/2003 1:49:27 PM ©2003 Never even having read him It is yet another merry merry unbirthday to me. I shrink down with the magic mushroom And open the door towonderland Where Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum Sit gawking and chuckling aimlessly. The eyes and smile of the Cheshire Noodle into the distance While smoke rings burst From the Caterpillar’s Scrabble pipe Among the singing tulips And the jaded well preened roses. The white rabbit shuttles himself From the windmill house While Alice explodes through doorways To be confronted by the Pelican and the Walrus After she chases him Dragging the mushroom cap with her As she shrinks. The deck is dealt by the master shuffler The flamingoes are straightened And bop headed for croquet On the Queen of Hearts Fresh Green Turf Until the call “Off with Her Head!” Awakens me to a book Spelled out in Rhyme. Astrological Signs By Christopher J. Bradley 5/8/2003 ©2003 You will have to forgive me For being skeptical of Astrological signs And their interpretations. Just the other day A guy asked me for mine And I had to think twice I didn’t want anyone hitting on me. I am beginning to realize How appealing words can make Any person with integrity And while its nice to know them It can be a little annoying at times. So I’ll share this once And the poets can do The metaphysical hand-off My power animal is the Zebra And my sign is Aries In the year of the Ram. Castles Upon the Sands By Christopher J. Bradley 5/4/2003 ©2003 You write of castles upon the sands And I dream of the sands Drifting to clouds of purple hue All of our fantasy realms are merging. In random spaces Realms are defined By loose Association. I walk like a conquered hero Addicted to your loving graces Searching for the floating kingdom The palace Where you compose On high. A veiled princess In disguise. Sun Apple By Christopher J. Bradley 5/6/2003 5:56:43 PM ©2003 Do not go gently into this good drift. The sands of time are upon us all yet the waters ripple at its touch. I am too a burning brook of lava on a high mountain far from the valleys of the sea of icarus. I swim to the sun to only find rainbows for your efforts and affections and place within them a golden apple won for a princess. Great work. Blue China Dragon 5/5/2003 12:56:17 AM ©2003 by Christopher J. Bradley The Blue China Dragon Dances On the Skin Of the Powerlink worker. He is grafting Tatoos As he can afford them He says. His goal A full Back Tatoo. I’ve never wanted a Tatoo But I can see the Razor Dragon Dance And it is edgy. Like Something out of Hong Kong Kung Fu. Keep Looking For A Better Tomorrow. Obfuscate By Christopher J. Bradley 5/4/2003 1:06:09 PM The clouds obfuscate The blare of the sunlight As the birds Soar from their nest In every direction A tsunami hovers. The concern of the people It will remind their children Of the day That they were scared Straight. Listen to the cries Of the raven In the dusk The water spouts Hover gently in the lake. Crystalline Dream By Christopher J. Bradley 5/8/2003 7:35:03 AM ©2003 I want to apologize For not being able To enjoin your fantasy realms Unfortunately this Crystalline Dream I have been building Is something of a selfish one. While I am not immune to sin I must absolve myself When and where I can. I am deeply moved by Your affections And they ring true They even taunt and thrill me When I am away. I apologize again For leading you up these mountain peaks Only to see you grapple With their stone faces But I can assure you That if your grip On the world of the real Is strong You will not fall Alone. Dancing Elephants By Christopher J. Bradley 4/27/2003 2:29:01 PM The dancing elephants are not white They are translucent in the multicolored night They only think they will be saved When the hatchet is buried in the grind. Let them play with their silly Balls And Wear their funny Head gear For tomorrow they will fall like Dumbo from the burning Sky. In this room I see a spider plant That is not real And American flags And a poster from a horse Called Abdullah I see the raining stars And an Eagle with a tear at it’s cheek I see an Elle magazine And a rack for more And I wonder what life is like in Chicago Florida is still cold in March. The Deconstruction of The Wizards Table By Christopher J. Bradley ©2002 The wizard worked for days Slowly building his corner table With candlesticks and books on alchemy And without a word spoken His magic in this sphere evaporated. Now he is a nomad A cause beyond lost And in my black plastic hat I grin like the Cheshire cat Into the evenly mirrored glass. He was a space cadet By Christopher J. Bradley 5/2/2003 3:10:26 PM ©2003 He was a space cadet My friend with the crutches So I bought him some bologna And he took the pack home with him. His apartment was down a dark alley On a Hindu mission’s doorstep But that didn’t make him any less of a friend. He was a sufferer of the syndrome of the fatherhoodness of the street. He liked his candy as much as anyone And they came to him He called them Angels So I bought him Christmas Cards. He was a weary tired old man I couldn’t afford to buy him shoes So we shared day old pizza Donated by the local vendor. And we brewed Oh we brewed A lovin’ for the sunshine In a big pot of molten guru junk. One day I saw his place With a fishtank in the center Propped up by the legs of a chessboard And his Kung Fu was strong While Jinx and I ate Tostitos in the streetlight. And the nights were harvested Like rain on Arakis And the Russian Played his game like Prometheus from afar And the Jazz Was pure Acid. As Perseus Great Warrior of The Cosmos By Christopher J. Bradley 4/30/2003 8:14:58 AM ©2003 As Perseus Great Warrior of The Cosmos At the behest of the Greek Council I will ride upon Pegasus into the night To converse with the Centaur On how the great deed must be done. On the great winged steed I fly Into the stratosphere with the owl and the dove To learn that I must conquer the Gorgon Before taking up arms against the Kracken. So I sew her in In her dark domain With many shields And behead the face Ringed With Snakes She goes with me in the sack. And the huge beast rises From the waters of the Mediterranean I need only to wield her ferocious head To conquer this Juggernaut And make him fall in Stone pieces. Good Night Sweet Princess by Christopher J. Bradley 4/28/2003 1:16:28 AM © Good night sweet princess The Dawn awaits For You to shine your rays On Another bird songed morning. This night has been luster filled for you Full of color and splendor Another eve among the plants Has done you well And now it is time for rest. Dream on Sweet Princess Go to the lightening world And ride a thousand Unicorns Across the chasms where the spirits lie Traverse the juxtaposing corridors Of your Phaze Doubt The game is afoot and your legend Stile The Blue Adept Awaits. Dance into his magic realm Like Agape the free spirit And find a way to share your Amoeba of Love In the silent ecstasy of daybreak. As the purple hues of morning’s dew Rest gently in the skyline. Chapter 6 Refreshing Thoughts The minature wet rock garden By Christopher J. Bradley 5/10/2003 1:31:40 PM ©2003 The wet rock garden With its miniature stones Stands in the corner Of the café’s serving space Endlessly drizzling Into the hot spring night air. A Midwestern ballad Drones into the ballasts Of my resting ears While a mixed cup of coffee Tantalizes my nose buds The spoon stands to the size In the ovular white mug. The wetness of the water Trickling in my ears Reminds me of days Sailing in the sun In a two-man sailboat With a girl I adored. It was given to the café By the kitchen manager. Tropicana Vision Quest By Christopher J. Bradley 5/5/2003 ©2003 The White Ambassador Blazed down the freeway In the dust of Georgia With Armadillo season Hot and Heavy in Atlanta. We were headed for Disney. I was 5. I remember sleeping in the night Wrapped in the owl blanked That my grandmother knitted. She was with us Up in the front seat. My brother and I Played games And I threw My grey elephant Out the window Somewhere along the way. It was crippling to my demeanor. We met up with my father in Florida And went to Disney To run into another relative My uncle The groove slinger In a wicker straw hat. He bought us plastic Tropicana Oranges That we drank from in the hot summer sun On the blacktop Just inside the main gates. We enjoyed all of the rides that summer The Spinning Teacups The Flying Dumbos It’s a Small World The Pirates of The Caribbean. We stopped in the street To watch a unicyclist And acrobat Dance on the wires. We watched the fireworks And searched for the princess And shook hands with Mickey and Donald. Every Kid’s Dreams. I remember after we left Going to a hotel Where we spent several days Enjoying Water Wings In the deep end of the pool. On the way home We stopped to visit Navy friends In Arkansas Where I interrupted a card game To ask for Soda. Dad had been playing find the glasses With me. My last image of that vacation Trapped in an unreadable 8 Millimeter Film Was of my brother and I Dancing in the Sprinklers One Sunny Summer Day On The Tropicana Vision Quest. The Deer By Christopher J. Bradley 5/4/2003 3:07:06 PM ©2003 The deer kick up In my headlights On a narrow Stretch of road In the darkness Of the first Of many spring nights Under the frosty sky. I slow with my brake And steer left To let them Scamper back Into the thicket At the right Of the path. And we continue on To my friend’s house Remembering The winters Of so many years past. The Beauty of a Woman’s Heart By Christopher J. Bradley 11/12/2002©2002 There is a reason that a woman’s chest is larger than a man’s It houses a heart of goodness and security. It houses a heart of wisdom and beauty. It houses a heart of color and grace. A woman’s heart allows for the ego of a foolish man Even when he doesn’t deserve his measure. A woman’s heart allows for the storminess of youth In the eyes of a teenage son. A woman’s heart is home to the eyes of infants Bringing them life and health and home And a woman’s heart is home to her husband’s breath On a cool winter evening before the fire. A woman’s heart is filled with the dreams of young daughters Growing to be one with their mother’s dreams for them An ever-expanding beauty following through generations From Athena and Agape to today. May God and men protect the hearts of women everywhere For we have not one to spare now or ever. Tom’s After Midnight By Christopher J. Bradley 9/23/2002 2:02:58 AM It could have been 3 weeks It could have been 6 Or it could have been like months That I was spending nights in there A man with a home But not wanting to come home. Afraid that there might be something there That he’d have to see If he were awake. During the light of day. And so that’s how it went For months at a time In the darkness in the cigarette chamber I met them Peeking out from the edges Of the city They were Some good Some evil The night dwellers Of Amherst. The waitress had her own agenda Trading coffee for knowledge Telling me all about how she Had a boyfriend of sorts An invisible man That must have been very disinterested in the place. The drunk car salesman had a thing or two to say Often more than a thing or two He was explicit and historical And full of concerns about the world and politics And and a repeat of the late 30’s. And I couldn’t have agreed with him more. And so I told him happy hunting And went my way To be introduced to another player Who I met speaking to him for quite some time A man with an eagle’s feather and a cut finger And a knife-blade attitude. I will to this day call him eagle claw As he is to be protected As are all in his culture. For his people are the true founders of the freedom of spirit. Sky the Retriever By Christopher J. Bradley 5/6/2003 3:29:14 PM ©2003 Sky the Retriever Is a golden bird dog He’s a pointer too. Sky likes to clean my shoes And nuzzle my feet Especially when I lay on the couch. Sky means business with bones and toys He’ll make a meal of a pig’s ear In half a night easy. Sky likes digging up grass With his big clawed paws And then tracking mud All over the wood floor. Sky is the number one lover man He comes right up to you And expects a full body massage. Sky leaves big balls of hair Under the refrigerator door He likes to beg for scraps. And Sky almost breaks a window If he sees anyone unusual Around the house. Sky’s bark is loud But it’s a happy kind of bark Because It fits his disposition. All of the Saints of Mary By Christopher J. Bradley 4/16/2003 3:30:01 PM ©2003 They travel today In a clockwork mini-car From West to East To find her on the sea-shore. The star What wonderful things she found in him The man she married They are making a life in splendor. If Michael and his parents Do not return I might find myself Without angels. In this sinful city Not far off from Lot’s not looking back But I feel now That I can withstand the pain. Of not knowing When they will go to join her For the madness of eternity May God’s peace be with them. Chocolate Easter Eggs in Coffee By Christopher J. Bradley 4/30/2003 10:03:52 AM ©2003 It is a week and a half After Easter Morning And I am still thinking About going fishing And the Passover And dunking chocolate eggs Into Millstone coffee At the counter Between several other upset customers Whose only goal Was to smoke. At least new life Kept its promise For one older woman Who lives on Thanks to the strength Of her sons’ faith In God. I believe I saw The Stone rolled away At 3 AM Sunday morning. The Tomb Was Empty. April Returns By Christopher J. Bradley 4/16/2003 12:05:45 AM ©2003 April Returns again this year With the cries of the survivors And the heart punished Who must plant the dead. For it is the season Where dust in the hand Must yield to new life As foliage takes bloom Upon the ashes of the frost. May the turnips and the rhubarbs And the squirrels and the possums And the rainbow trout and the sturgeon And the rock and the goose Dance across the skyline With the birds of the sea. For in every close To every season Is a hand-hold To that which is born-anew. Lewiston Landing By Christopher J. Bradley 5/6/2003 4:28:16 PM ©2003 Lewiston Landing Is a great place To go To feed the sparrows And the seagulls On a lunch break With a car Full of McDonalds Or a bag Full of Popcorn. One night I took my lover To sit under the trees And watch the River rapids flow. At times I have been Given to Playing chess there Under the Picnic Tables At midnight. Orca and Sea-World By Christopher J. Bradley 5/10/2003 1:46:56 PM ©2003 When I was five Going back to the whole vision quest of Florida My father took my brother and I To sea world. We had a chance To pet the dolphins In the big circular tank And watch Orca The big killer whale Rescue the seal at play. Dad took lots of pictures And we got up close So that we could get All wet and drippy In the spray Of the bursting sunshine. After we visited the poolsides We climbed into the bleachers On the concrete terrace And found Mom and Grammy In their summer sunglasses. They Call To Me From Beyond By Christopher J. Bradley 11/11/2002 4:18:59 AM I am all too aware as I pass by On darkened streets On fall nights in November That I am not alone as I pass the cemetery. Their voices whistle against the smoke filled air At my damp car window As I drive by The voices of their spirits. The spirits of long dead electricians plumbers Carpenters masons electricians Farmers factory workers and the like The spirits of mothers fathers brothers sisters Uncles aunts cousins grandparents and grandchildren. They weep to me from heaven and say Live long and stay well For we miss you desperately We can only look at your progress in astonishment. And yet I wonder Even in this metal fixture with gripping traction control And a cell phone in hand How long will it take me to earn my Wings That the voices might be those of the living. Withering Spring Lillies By Christopher J. Bradley 4/30/2003 10:09:37 AM ©2003 All I may remember Of this life And its’ untold stories Is that he was a father To my beautiful Aunt. If I were not already mourning My Aunt Whose funeral I also could not attend Because of the almost unending chain of them Through the Winter And the past Fall I might have been able to bring myself To cope better And wear a clean kind of black. But I will resign to my muddied green And contemplate On the fading life of this Lilly Which was never meant to live in perpetual shade. Perhaps it’s bulb will bloom Once more In the garden. How the sparrows dart By Christopher J. Bradley 5/4/2003 3:17:47 PM ©2003 The sparrows dart In the early morning Sunlight From their nests Up in the garages Along the long sides And then under The rigs Of the eighteen Wheelers. And I stand At attention From the top Of my perch Watching them As the uniformed officials Search A flashy Onyx Sports Car. Why I cannot believe that the underworld is worthwhile By Christopher J. Bradley 10/17/2002 The underworld is all gnashing of teeth And ugly crimes against humanity Of all forms and consequences. The underworld is composed of the denizens Of dark misery and sorrow Those who make company a despair. The underworld is a place Where beauty does not shine As through the faces of the innocent. And though I walk talk and find myself in contemplation In the darkness of night I know that I am not alone That God The Holy Spirit and the Son Are here with me through it all. On Forgiving Chris By Christopher J. Bradley 4/16/2003 3:09:08 AM ©2003 I sat around the table with them They drank coffee And smoked While thinking of Ernest And chattering about solar houses And drainage issues. Eventually the hardest of them all Told of his dictates Of a firing And what came to mind for me Was that God would forgive This man. And so I told him. And we went in our Separate directions. Little Fuzzy Dogs By Christopher J. Bradley 4/28/2003 4:16:24 AM Little fuzzy dogs You mean more to me than a thousand wars. The genuine smiles in your little round eyes Light up my days like the luminous candle of the sun. Little fuzzy dogs I love to pet you And have the shopkeepers Bring you out with the French Roast. I love to see you Little Fuzzy Dogs With the college girl from around the corner With painted toenails in her sandals. Or riding down the street In a carriage Just like someone’s Real little baby. Little fuzzy dogs There are more words in your eyes Than a single human Can express. Chapter 7 Family Musings Cajun Chicken Gumbo By Christopher J. Bradley 5/6/2003 ©2003 I remember the first time I had Cajun chicken gumbo It was at Montana’s With Dad On a Saturday Afternoon After going to see Legally Blonde With Reese Witherspoon. The gumbo was excellent It was red pepper spicy With tons of shrimp and chicken Over sausage and ziti All in a thick Alfredo sauce. I can’t remember many meals That I liked this well So I formulated my own Special recipe for it. And now I make it At home with Mom’s nimble assistance. To be hungry for pizza By Christopher J. Bradley 5/4/2003 3:23:10 PM Mom and I Are still sitting Here at work Hungry for breakfast Pizza. We are hungry Because the Girl who was Supposed to be The morning relief Probably Went out And got Either Drunk Or Stoned Last Night. Oh Well I guess I could be more forgiving. Nah! Delivering the News By Christopher J. Bradley 5/8/2003 7:25:49 AM ©2003 I would get up To my radio alarm At five AM And walk down-stairs To the living room The papers would Be waiting there On the front porch And for a half hour I would insert ads And roll them up Then I would wake Mom If she wasn’t already up And in the winter We would drive the old Chevy station wagon With the radio On oldies WKBW And I would run Across Ice and Snow Flying like a swooping sparrow To wake the groggy poodles And get them barking And nipping at the doors We were always finished by seven Sesame Chicken Shrimp & Mushrooms By Christopher J. Bradley 4/15/2003 11:52:35 PM Tribute to my Parents 31st Anniversary Of all the foods I like best At the local China Buffet My favorites are The Sesame Chicken The Chicken and Mushrooms And the Seafood Combo Including Shrimp. My family Able to relax after dinner Sits Cub-Scout Uniformed Breaking fortune cookies And cleaning up After mussels Onion Rings And other assorted desserts. We are truly blessed To enjoy the fruits Of this alternative culture All together Again. Fighting with the movie listings By Christopher J. Bradley 5/2/2003 2:51:48 PM ©2003 My telephone lets me Do amazing things at night And then sometimes They aren’t Quite so amazing. Trying to get a simple movie listing Can be a hell all its own Now that they’ve made it easier. You don’t key in listings any more You say them. This can be a true nightmare In a crowded room. Tonight the thing thought I wanted Stock Quotes. And then It just plain hung up. Soup By Christopher J. Bradley 5/10/2003 1:51:03 PM ©2003 Nothing says love to my stomach Like a good hot bowl Of Mom’s tomato and beef soup. I love the tangy sweetness Of the rich fruit Of the thin green vines. A perfect complement is Always a grilled American cheese sandwich Or a couple of slices Of French bread garlic toast. This dish is best served in the winter To warm up a cold runny nose With dry frozen cheeks While my glasses are still steamed up From smoking out in the ice. Nothing says love to my stomach Like a good hot bowl Of Mom’s tomato and beef soup. In what kind of strange world am I? By Christopher J. Bradley 4/30/2003 8:29:54 AM ©2003 In what kind of strange world am I? Where Spongebob haunts Even this my humble writing table? At first I found it amusing A great Nickelodeon show But then I began to see The Jelly Pops And the fisherman caps And the bottles of Bubble Stuff And everything that reminded me Of the slime time of my youth. And then I think Maybe it’s not so bad If Adults love him too After All Everyone needs someone To look up to. Midnights with Mom By Christopher J. Bradley 4/27/2003 2:00:20 PM I’ve spent hours and hours here In the early morning floodlights Of the bridge Not far from where I attended my very first school. Tonight I had an Egg Sandwich And a Chicken Souvlaki in a Pita Damn the Greeks for being so Beautiful. I found out that Jerry’s mother Has done well through her heart surgery And is now up and walking and about He says she’ll be home tomorrow Did God trade prayers for life? A fool I am Watching this green punch clock Bidding myself not to play with the stapler. Mom is going to wake a driver One way or another And I am left to solitude Perhaps the radio would do some good. Naval Park By Christopher J. Bradley For Robert Alan Bradley (my father) Revised 3/29/2002 3:45 AM I saw it once As a cub scout. The Naval Park In Buffalo New York. Then one time Dad You took us The whole family my Brother my Sister and Mom and I On a ship. You were a reservist in the Navy. You must have loved your time at sea. We cruised the edge of the city In a new War Boat. It was gray painted And manned with many sailors. It was a kind of transport For delivering troops and vehicles. Back then you were working As a Petty Officer on Weekends A clerk with stripes And for a research outfit that made Aircraft radar jamming devices. I still have posters and stickers of the simulator project. Someday I will show you Someday I will show you How I can work And turn letters into The fuel for my battle ship With these fingers that only type Because they are a gift from you. Shelling Pistachios with Dad By Christopher J. Bradley 5/4/2003 2:42:39 PM ©2003 Of all of the Common experiences I can remember having Dating back To my farthest Of being In my current home. I can remember Sitting at the kitchen table And shelling Pistachios With Dad. The Pen The Pad The Ink By Christopher J. Bradley 4/16/2003 12:43:28 AM ©2003 To Blot New Verse In Communion With The Past In A Conspiracy With The Future Is Oh So Engaging. Many Little Feet Will Sprout From These Dipping Digits Of My Contorting Palms As The Black Blood Of My Flex Wrinkles Yet Another Page. But For The First Time I Can See All Of Them The Ghosts And The Eyes Of The Past I Can Interpret The Voices As They Speak Of Times And Places I Have Yet To See. From My Dining Room Table Under The Tips Of My Plants Next To A Nice Jug Of Kool-Aid. Safety Pins By Christopher J. Bradley 5/4/2003 ©2003 You can do All sorts of things With Safety Pins. One of my friend’s brothers At a high school dance Wore a denim jacket With a safety pinned Anarchy sign On the back. And we danced In A Circle To the beats Of Information Society “Pure Energy.” And fell down Together To the strains Of Rock Lobster By the B52’s. The Microwave Switch By Christopher J. Bradley 10/17/2002 It happened instantaneously Or overnight anyway The old microwave was removed And a new one took its place It used to be so simple You could tell them apart by color But these two Were both white. Every time I try to open The cold plastic door I press below the keypad To no avail. Now I have to pull the handle And the switch pops Unlike the switch on the other microwave. Which vanished With yesterdays news. Can I borrow the car? By Christopher J. Bradley 5/4/2003 3:04:36 PM ©2003 Can I borrow the car Tonight? Tomorrow? Or Any other Day? See I need one Because I don’t have one. And things are getting desperate I think. It is difficult to get around Without a car So All I can do Is ask you politely In quiet agony. Can I borrow the car Tonight? Tomorrow? Or any other day? Cat Scratch By Christopher J. Bradley 5/10/2003 1:42:23 PM ©2003 Last night I was playing with Tobey I was taunting him with my writing hand It is easy to forget That these cute little furballs Have little sharp tensing claws. I jived left and right And before I could react sensibly His paw struck my thumb And his little toenail was stuck in it. The poor thing must have been terrified as I gently shook it loose. I was mad at myself For playing this stupid game of chicken And I will try to remember Not to do it again Lest I catch the fever And begin to howl At the moon Like the foolish Canine in me. Country and Western Gospel By Christopher J. Bradley 5/4/2003 3:02:37 PM ©2003 Yesterday I made six copies Of a Country and Western Gospel CD. I didn’t know it was Country and Western But now Listening to it It is somehow soothing In the early morning Sunrise. The Genius Mouse By Christopher J. Bradley 5/6/2003 ©2003 For my sixteenth birthday I asked for one gift And one gift alone I wanted to experience The miracles Of computer painting. My parents drove me All the way to The other end of town To a little corner Computer Shop On Buffalo Avenue. We haggled on price With the more than Generous vendors Who sold me On sixty five dollars For the Genius Mouse. The Buffalo Bison Won By Christopher J. Bradley 5/4/2003 3:09:42 PM It is May 2 And the weather has improved Considerably And I am watching the news. This was the day That the Bisons played In the hot sunny afternoon. And with a 3 run Home run That popped over The fence Out of the glove They sealed up A victory. And now I listen To Mom tell Of a real Bison Encounter At Yellowstone Last summer. When she bought me The old Ford postcard In South Dakota. Coffee in a Bookstore By Christopher J. Bradley 5/6/2003 ©2003 From my resting place Here at the window In the bookstore A cup of coffee at my left I can see a Buffalo on a rooftop An Instant Oil Change sign A sports-card store front And a Big Orange Bull’s Eye. I can see a Mexican Restaurant And the favorite computer store Of the farm stock And a Pier 1 imported goods shop. I can see all of the cars parking Mobile and immobile They track like metal ants with riders If seen from the air. I can hear a coffee clerk Ringing up orders for a Vanilla Chai Discussing making soup with his peer And the din of a cellular phone tone. Not much has changed in five years Except maybe the fact That I can probably now Spend my time in places Where it is more comfortable To write. Where are all those cars going? By Christopher J. Bradley 5/2/2003 ©2003 Where are all these cars going On a Thursday at Midnight? They must be traveling Somewhere. Maybe some dark smoky bar? Maybe some center city café? Their Taillights Zip Like firecracker blasts Twisting through the night I suppose only The men in black hats Will know For sure. A Day For Mothers Everywhere… By Christopher J. Bradley 4/30/2003 9:47:11 AM ©2003 Dear Mom I know that Mother’s Day should not be the only day that I write to you. It makes me feel all guilty and emotional to think that this is the first time I’ve taken the time to sit down and write in years. The truth is I’ve been trying to speak to you but among all of the misgivings of our lives of work scouts sports and politics the meanings get lost. Mom there’s no one in the world who can cook up a dish of pasta a pot of soup or a vegetable casserole exactly as excellently as you. You are truly good with food. You are a tribute to my big healthy stomach. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about you in some way shape or form. At present I see you much more often than in the past. And I am grateful for that. I would like you to know that I don’t sit up nights with you because I am lonely. I could pretty much do that anywhere. I think I sit up with you because I need someone to share my love with. Even in the dead of night it pulses from my heart. The heart that you gave me. Through my own mistakes the fire in my heart has gone unquenched but at least I know that I can share a moment or two to thank you for giving me the beat in my pulsing chest. Thank you Mom I will Love You Forever Barring my Stupidity And may that Stupidity be crushed By the Praying Hands of God. -Christopher The oval framed photograph By Christopher J. Bradley 4/30/2003 6:59:19 PM ©2003 My Ancestors are with me My Grandmother And the aunt of my childhood Look out at me from the oval. It is always in the corner of my piano She is the grandmother who Traveled with us to Disney And brought back towels From her amazing travels to California With my uncle. My aunt is her daughter My mother’s sister Young and thin and blue jeaned She is so full of spirit. They used to let me sleep over And read Dr. Seuss stories And watch wrestling And every Saturday Morning Cartoon And The Tonight Show and Letterman. We used to visit my grandmother In her small office And play with her paper clips and rubber bands. My grandmother liked Wendy’s and the Casa for Lunch Her taste in Spaghetti was excellent She was the impetus behind Canning homemade tomato sauce Every year for close to ten. I remember scavenger hunts My aunt used to draw out for me And how we would do word finds Whenever I would ask. She was a grade school teacher. There are so many things That I know will come to me As time passes Until then I patiently write. Why Does Mom Make Christmas Cookies Year Round? by Christopher J. Bradley 4/30/2003 8:35:12 AM ©2003 Why does Mom make Christmas Cookies Year ‘Round? I’m beginning to think I know I think Dad really likes them. There’s nothing quite like A nice hot red and green sprinkled cookie It doesn’t matter exactly when it is And little fingers and fists Always gravitate toward the still warm baking pans. Even the dogs get a taste They go after the treats Like any pair of Self respecting pit bulls But they always grin Just like themselves. So I guess all in all She isn’t just making them for Dad She’s making them for me too Because I’m munching on a star now. Category:Catalog